Just always be waiting for me
by Corlee
Summary: Killian gets ready for his first date with Emma and swears to himself that he should be a gentleman, but Emma has other plans.


Killian looked at himself in the mirror, the blue collared shirt buttoned up to his neck, his waistcoat properly straight. He grimaced, loosening a button (or two, or four) from the shirt and shook his arms out to release the tension in them. Of all days to not have the rum flask, he sure could have used it. He looked at the pendants hanging from his necklace and sighed.

_You should know better, Jones_, he thought to himself. _What are you, a fop? She'll never take you seriously._ He buttoned his shirt up again, just leaving the one underneath his collarbone loosened.

He threw on his new leather jacket and let out a breath that practically shook the small apartment that Granny had let him stay in. They often argued about how much pepper should _actually_ go in a decent chicken roast but those debates usually left Killian hungry at the end of the night. She was stubborn but he was rather used to ornery women.

He heard steps coming up to the rooms-_stars, the walls were so thin around here_-and felt the vibrations of Emma's walk. Oh, that walk. It sent shivers into his neck, tingling the back of his head. The rhythm of her steps were a chorus yelling out _you couldn't handle this_ and by the gods, she was right. Whether it was boots or heels, her traveling a block could set him on fire.

His door was ajar just an inch, but she knocked nonetheless. He squeezed his lips together with his thumb and forefinger, forcing some composure on the stupidly, big grin he had on his face. He rushed to the door, blowing out a breath before his hand pulled it open. She raised her head at the sight of him and he felt like he had just been crushed at the sight of her. He didn't even have the chance to look at all of her, just her face was enough. A radiance fell off of her like seaspray, the curves of her cheeks glowing with rosy warmth. Her hair was half pulled up, the rest of the strands flowing down her shoulders. She had a smile that filled up his lackluster room with immediate brilliance.

"Hi," she spoke softly, more roses flooding her face. She was suppressing a smile also-subtle laugh lines fading away that were apparent only seconds before. The walls she housed behind went up and down like the changing of winds. He wanted to bring them all crumbling down.

His hand immediately went to cusp her face, her chin resting softly in his palm. Her eyes-he could see every ocean he ever sailed in those irises-blinked rapidly at his touch. _Always surprised_. "Princess," he whispered. "Lovely as always." He couldn't help but call her that in the moments between them after coming back from the Enchanted Forest; when they were huddled in silent corners talking about plans or in the hallway pretending that neither of them didn't want to just break down all of the walls with their endless, merciless friction.

_Yes, my Princess.  
><em>_If you think it's a good idea, Princess.  
><em>_Sounds like a plan, Princess.  
><em>_Why don't you make me, Princess._

It stayed between them, like all the best kept secrets were.  
>Her hands shoved him teasingly, her laugh finally released from the depths of her lungs. "Shut up."<p>

"Never." He leaned his body in, his new clothes touching the front of her body. She followed suit, giving in, leaning to close the gap between them.

He pulled her face to his, his lips barely touching hers, her breath pouring over him in a fog. "You clean up well," she whispered. He closed his eyes, a soft moan barely restrained in his throat. His nose took in the rest of her-cinnamon and fresh, cotton linens and above all _home_-and he brushed it up against hers, his bottom lip barely grazing her top one. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Numbers and details of dinner plans floated away, digits and consonants drifting above his head. Killian wanted nothing more than to give in, to let go with his entire being, but..._Good form, Killian. Good form_. He broke away, his hand drifting down the length of her arm, his thumb resting in the palm of her hand. "Oh, nothing would delight me more, Swan but-"

"Then do it," she interrupted.

One eyebrow raised and the other furrowed. She mimicked the same look-_stubborn woman, he was trying to be a gentleman here_-and he sighed. Her fingers went up to the hollow of his throat, her finger circling the small crevice and tracing the outline of his collarbone. Goosebumps erupted on his skin and his shoulders stiffened. She tapped the first closed button and snickered. She rested her hand on his chest, the warmth of her palm felt like gold and pearls and first sea voyages of the summer. "Emma, would you like to come in to my quarters?"

"Yes," she said, brushing past him and through the threshold. He closed the door behind him and looked at her thoroughly now. She was covered in a lace number, black and white and _Swan_ all over. It hugged her figure in all the right places, moving with her in fluid motions. She turned at the click of the doorknob, walking back to him with dubious intentions.

"Not exactly a palace," he remarked, distracting himself with peeled wallpaper and crooked frames. _Blast that good form!_ Her hand went to his face, her fingers tilting his chin toward her. It drifted down, gripping the lapel of his new jacket. She made a fist with the material and when he looked at her face, she was quite literally tongue in cheek. Ornery woman. "We'll be late," he informed her. He swallowed the stone in his throat.

"Why do you think I was early?" She pulled him into her, her lips colliding against his. He was spellbound to her. She tasted of warm sugar and wanderlust, more reward now than risk. He was still tense, his arms slowly enveloping her, closing her into him until he they were practically one soul. "Let go, Killian," she whispered in between breaths.

He obliged, his weight pulling her up to his chest, her legs wrapping around his waist. She clung to him, her hands simultaneously grasping his hair and cupping the back of his neck. He forgot about the wallpaper, the dilapidated rug underneath his feet, the thin walls surrounding them. He forgot about his conscience telling him it was bad form. Her magic, her loveliness, her walls, her stubborn mind, her relentless hands touching him-everything about her was good, the _best _kind of form.


End file.
